Taming the Monsters
by Thief of Black Winged Hearts
Summary: Takes place just before "The Man From the Other Side". When Peter was a boy, he was deathly afraid of the dark. Now that he has grown, he is still afraid. He's just afraid of other things...


Hey. I hope there's someone somewhere out there reading this. Maybe. Possibly. This waas an interesting fic to write. I've been home sick for the last three days, so I've had ample time to do some writing. And since I was watching Fringe...well, I ended up writing this. Go figure. I had origanally planned for this to be something else, but the writing just got away from me. I was looking at what I was writing thinking 'this is not what I had in mind' and by the time I had finished I was thinking 'what the hell?'. It tends to happen to me a lot.

I hope you enjoy! Ok, and by the way, I don't own this. Don't own Fringe and never had. I could never make it as awesome as it is.

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Taming the Monsters

When Peter was a boy, he was deathly afraid of the dark. Of course, he would never tell another soul this; in those early years, boys must be big and brave and not give in to such childish terrors. It didn't change the facts; Peter would never like to go down that dark stairwell into the basement, or run out to the shed on a starless night. Whenever his father (back then he wouldn't dare to think of his all-powerful father in such terms as his first name; though later, when he proved to be only a shadow of his former self, Peter would have no trouble) would ask him to run to the tool shed on a moonless night for some device or other that he needed for his latest project, Peter would never show fear. He would just bite his little lip and walk into the hallway to get his shoes. Standing there in the hallway, with his jacket zipped up tight and his shoes firmly laced (after all, if something should dare to stalk him in the dim-lit night, he would not want his shoes to be his undoing), and tell himself firmly that he was not afraid. Then with a trembling hand, he would open the door and gently push it open, prepared for something sinister to be lurking on the other side. There never was, of course, but that fact did not diminish the threat in Peter's mind.

As he passed through the fresh-cut grass and over the garden bed, Peter would walk with the careful haste of one who wishes speed but not noise. Eyes wide, with his faithful blue flashlight in his hand, he would sweep the lawn in a systematic pattern befit of a genius, already used to calculating his maximum sweep to illuminate the whole yard. The cold air would prickle his skin, and Peter would be tense and wary; always ready to move at the slightest sound of pursuit and make that fateful dash to the safety of the house. Some nights a nocturnal critter might cry out in its ramblings, causing the boy to start and go pale, but then he would stay his courage and continue on.

Reaching the shed, he would prop open the door, still ready to flee at the slightest provocation, and scan the insides for whatever his father had requested of him. Catching sight of his requested item, he would dart forward, grab it in one deft movement, and be out the shed door before it even had a chance to close. With his task completed he would sprint for the bright safety of the house. Coming inside the door and closing it sharply behind him (once the door was closed he always fancied himself safe, and never thought beyond that) he would breathe a small sigh of relief before shedding himself of his boots and coat. Rounding the corner, he would proudly present his item to his father, who would take it with something that border-lined on indifference. His mother would then come from the kitchen and inquire why his cheeks were so red and his breathing so labored. And he would not give her an answer, not for anything in the world because then he would have to admit to his fear, and suffer the resulting shame.

If you had asked him then (not that anyone ever did) why he so feared the dark, Peter would have replied that it wasn't the dark he was afraid of, but what lurked in it. The dark was simply an accomplice, hiding the fiends that were sure to come find him and drag him from his bed while his father's eyes observed coldly from above. And if anyone ever asked if there were a connection between his particular fear and the nights he woke in a cold sweat, shivering in fright at some half-remembered occurrence, well, he wouldn't have been able to present anyone with a connection. Monsters lurked everywhere, after all, and in Peter's mind there was no difference between the ones that stalked him in his dreams and the ones that stalked him in the dark. Besides, his father always told him the dreams weren't real and were nothing to be worried about. Would his father lie to him about things such as these?

Of course, much later in his life, he would learn that not all monsters could be deterred by closer doors and Mickey Mouse nightlights. Some monsters were real. And they had teeth and claws and the blood-red urge to kill. Except now he didn't sleep with a nightlight, twenty years and many Fringe cases later. Now, he slept with a gun. It wouldn't even work on half of the things he had seen, but it was like his nightlight from so long ago; it made him feel just a little bit safer.

Now, Peter was a man (still very much alike in many ways to that scared little boy from so long ago), and he'd thought he'd beaten his fear of the dark. His fear of the monsters. His fear of the nightmares. But he hadn't, because after working in the underground for fifteen odd years, he knew monsters weren't things with claws and jaws and scales. Monsters hid behind the faces of people, people all around you who had darkness hidden in their hearts. If you turned around in a dark alley and saw someone there it would be a person, but still the same monster, none the less. They were just a little harder to spot and a little easier to kill. So Peter walked on alone in the world, comfortable in his belief; _there are no monsters, because that's what humans are. _And his father was the biggest monster of them all. He wanted nothing to do with them, the humans _or_ the monsters.

Then in she walked, with her sexy FBI suit and her determined green eyes. All of a sudden the world he had begun to see in shades of grey had color in it, and he didn't want to let it go. Peter was angry at first; how dare this woman walk into a room and change his life. She had taken his comfortable little shell of hating humanity and had shaken it, all by walking into a hotel lobby. She was intriguing and aggravating, deadly and stunning, all in the same breath. Of course, then she walks over to him, and in one short conversation he finds himself on a plane back to the U.S.A. and back to his father. Peter was so angry he was seeing red (a lovely color that was better than grey).

He wasn't even sure how she had managed to get him within twenty miles of his father without a gun, but suddenly he found himself face-to-face with the monster himself. It had been so easy to hate him for so long, and even now the anger and the hatred still ran deep. But seeing his once-proud father reduced to this babbling lunatic was a blow even to his iron resolve. Peter was still perfectly sure he was in the right; after all it wasn't him who had neglected him for most of his childhood, it wasn't him who drove his mother to suicide. But now that the mighty lion had been cowed into quivering kitten, he didn't know what to do. It didn't feel right to put all of that hate on this one pathetic creature.

Peter felt so conflicted and confused, all of a sudden seeing color again and having so many conflicting impulses. He wanted nothing better than to flee the country and go back to his dull, miserable, grey life. But of course, then she walks right back in and slaps the handcuff on him; _stay with your father or I'll ruin your life more than it's already ruined. It's your choice. Oh, and trust me, I know a lot about ruined lives, so don't think for a second that I can't do it. _Peter didn't know whether he wanted to kiss her or to strangle her. Maybe he's do both for variety's sake. So he stuck around, wanting to see more of this person who had brought all this color into his life.

Down the rabbit hole he fell, into this weird world of the impossible, the terrifying, and the bizarre. Him and three other people; Olivia, the colorful enigma that drew him in closer every day, Astrid, who helped and assisted to the point he thought that poor girl was going to die, and Walter, the monster who had fallen into the dark hole and broke into a million pieces. Now, Peter could barely reconcile this odd, quirky, yet lovable person with the cold, dispassionate monster of his youth. Walter had been broken into so many pieces that he wasn't the same person he used to be. So Peter stayed with them, working case after case, watching as Walter tried desperately to remember his past to save people's lives. He watched Astrid, neglected and hurt by Walter so many times, but coming back because she knew he didn't mean it and they cared about each other. Peter watched Olivia (always with the closest eye, not that he would ever tell her that) as over and over again risked her life to save people she didn't even know. He watched as she fell apart, hurt by the betrayal of her partner and lover, only to push herself to her feet to stand once more. Peter watched as slowly he came to actually care, about these people and his work.

At first it's just simple things; fetching a sandwich for Olivia when he _knows _she hasn't eaten for days. Sometimes it's her who invites him to the bar after a tough case. Then it's _him _inviting _her. _Maybe it's a hug he offers her when she looks broken enough to fall to pieces on the ground. Then it's a midnight confession; she speaks of her ghosts and he speaks of his fears. It's coffee, it's a smile, and it's a look of understanding when Walter does something exceptionally loopy. Peter doesn't know what it is, but by god he's going to find out if it's the last thing he ever does.

Eventually, the cold threats that had once been a chain around his neck now became a lifeline. How could he ever give up this job, this crazy life that was as dangerous as it was wonderful? And when the day came where Olivia unclipped the chain and told him he could go, he stayed.

Now, he knows what the real monsters are. The real monsters are the things that stalk innocent people in the night; monsters are a pattern that slowly draws a noose around the universe. The monsters are the ones who threaten his family ("Our makeshift family unit", he once told her, and she had laughed). Sometimes, when he looks into the face of a villain they had just apprehended, or when he saw the bloodstained hands on another killer, he would see again the monsters he saw of old. But now the monsters aren't everyone, just the people who do the most harm. That is something he can live with; not going out every day and seeing monster eyes looking out of the face of the crowd. But the monsters in his own heart still haunt him, and every night he still wakes in cold sweat, frightened before the dream once again slips back into the abyss. But his father is always there ("Yes, Walter I'm still breathing, now would you please get off my chest so I can sleep!") and that makes Peter feel the slightest bit wanted, the tiniest bit loved.

There are some days where the world becomes too much for Olivia and Peter. Some cases where the pressure would get to one of them, or where something about it had hit far too close to home. It was then that they would find each other, in his house or in her apartment. Then Peter would hold her in his arms (she would simply lean against, it was all she could allow herself to do), and they would break down as far as they would allow themselves to breakdown. He was used to having no one to turn to, and she had strong walls built around her heart. But the closeness of another human being seemed to break down some walls and some habits, and they would stay like that until they felt like the world wasn't crashing around them.

Slowly, Walter began to grow on him. At first, they worked together with a grudging reluctance. Walter kept trying to avoid him because he thought Peter hated him (and he had been right, not that Peter would tell him that now) and Peter avoided him because seventeen years and some hundred miles hadn't been enough for him. But eventually, after spending some time with him, Peter began to acclimate to Walter's idiosyncrasies. Peter still couldn't pinpoint the moment where Walter stopped being a burden and became someone Peter cared about. Maybe it was when he walked into that dark tunnel with poison on his lips and a song on his tongue. Walter did all of that, just to save Charlie's life. Remembering the panic that had engulfed his as he watched his father move towards the jaws of the beast, Peter is sure that at that moment, Walter became a person in his mind. Walter was a person who had made mistakes, but was trying desperately to correct them. Sometime later, he became his father again, and Peter still didn't know what too feel about that. All he could do was take things day by day.

The most momentous day was the one where he had called Walter dad. The way his face lit up, it was like a child who had received the best Christmas present ever.

Now, Peter is a man (but in some ways is still a boy) and is no longer afraid of the dark. But he is still scared of the monsters, for he has seen too many of them. Of course, he never told another soul (though he might have told her, had she asked him), for in later years men must be brave and not be haunted by such childish fears. But it didn't change the facts; nowadays Peter slept with a gun and still saw monsters in the eyes of the people he hunted. But sometimes, he still wonders if he hadn't been right after all, about the nightmares and the things that stalked him in the dark. He still had his suspicions, for there were times where Walter would look at him and his face would become drawn with sadness and pain. There was a haunting in his eyes, reminiscent of the days where he had been a monster who had cruelly neglected his only son. Like a shadow, falling over Walter's soul, a pain long buried resurfacing. One day, when they had been riding in the car together and he had woken from one of his nightmares, he had tried to explain this to Olivia. She had paused for a moment, and then told him she was sure it was nothing. And while he had seen a wisp of shadow in her eyes, he had chosen to believe her.

After all, would Olivia lie to him about things such as these?

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Please review. I could use some feedback on this fic.


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